


Memories of a dear friendship, and all that comes from losing it

by PicklingProse



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, Isobel reflects on her memories of Violet, Post-Canon, and everyone wonders just why she's taking so long to accustom to the loss., but it's just difficult to lose your companion., she doesn't know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24628468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PicklingProse/pseuds/PicklingProse
Summary: The Dowager's illness defeated her at last. Now, Isobel struggles battling her grief over a dear friend.A question rises at last: when is a relationship deemed a friendship, and when is it to be called something more?A story that follows Isobel through a period of grief longer than most would associate with losing your friend. It's a collection of little memories tied to moments, people, and objects, as well as a take on just how her environment might react to the time it takes her to recover. This fic will mostly focus on friend-/companionship and the memory thereof.
Relationships: Isobel Crawley/Richard "Dickie" Grey, Isobel Crawley/Violet Crawley
Kudos: 8





	1. the day they expected, but never prepared for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first fanfic (or proper story) I've written in ages. It's all a bit intimidating now, seeing as the last fics I wrote were terrible, but I had a blast creating them still. Hopefully this one is a lot less bad, haha.
> 
> I thought recently that the idea of expanding on Isobel and Violet's relationship through memories would be interesting, which landed me here. Seeing as no one wrote the fic yet, I supposed I had to do so myself!
> 
> So yes! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I liked writing it :)

_March._

The funeral had been beautiful. Truly, despite — or perhaps somewhat because of — how heart-breaking the occasion was. It stirred them all deeply, Isobel discovered as she inspected the guests near the front row in an attempt to shut out some vicious old ladies concealed behind mourning veils. She heard something of a snigger from them at one point, when Robert stepped up to hold a short speech. Isobel had just about prepared her lines to firmly correct those ladies after the funeral, when she realised it'd be of no use. She'd need to spare her energy for the weeks, possibly months to come, for grief could make one feel as if all life had been drained from them. She wasn't at all glad to say she was a bit of an expert on losing loved ones now.

At most funerals, she found herself thrown back to Matthew's. Before his, Reginald's. But that day she was ever so present, and realised that Violet's funeral would be added to the list of those she'd mentally revisit with each future funeral she'd attend.

Right after it happened, Isobel offered to take on some preparations for the funeral: writing cards to family friends, setting up a list of what was needed, and a few other logistics. She didn't want the Crawleys to overburden themselves during a time like this, where everything was difficult enough already. She left deciding on a spot for the burial and choosing flowers to the family.

The blow hadn't hit her when she offered her help. It hadn't yet on the funeral, nor right after it happened — despite her being the one to find Violet in the first place. The definiteness of it all struck her only once it was al over, when she found herself wanting to ask the chauffeur to take her to the Dowager's house after the funeral, to talk it all through and discuss just how they were going to help Downton Abbey's inhabitants regain their spirits.

It then struck her that she'd never see her friend again. Violet lost against the disease and had put up less of a fight than any of her family members — or Isobel, for that matter. It was as if Violet had been entirely at peace with the inevitable, while those closest to her tried everything within their might to deny that they couldn't save her. Isobel counted herself among the group of those in partial denial — at first, anyway —, though she experienced everything more as an outsider than she initially expected of herself.

Instead of a member of the family, she mostly went through those last months as a nurse, trying her very best to make Violet's small amount of time left as pleasant as she could muster. It was all rather a blur in her memory now, and she came to realise that all the time, she had survived instead of lived. her mind put to zero, her work her first priority. Though some moments stood out to her in the haze of foggy memories. Rare, almost upbeat moments with Violet, in which they reminisced on the past and conversed like they used to. It were those moments Isobel tried her best to remember, for they might later provide a source of comfort.

_And oh, she so hoped that her memories would prove to be a comfort indeed._

* * *

Although she had returned the day after Violet exhaled her last breath, her own house felt foreign to Isobel after the funeral. She longed for nothing more than to reside in the Dowager house just to pretend, only for a night, that she'd get up in the morning to bring up Violet's breakfast and have a chat. Isobel became a primary source of gossip to Violet in the end, and she found rare joy in it those days, hearing the Dowager's witty replies to anything that was amiss in the village or their circle of mutual acquaintances.

_Had that vase been there when she left?_ Isobel stepped over to inspect a large vase with white lilies in it. _Yes,_ she remembered, it had been since a few days after she and Richard married: a wedding present from some distant cousin she hadn't met even once in her life. It was a nice vase, though, she had to admit. The regular chrysanthemums had been replaced today; likely a gesture of sympathy from their maid.

"Are you alright?" she heard his concerned voice behind her. Something told Isobel that all she wanted was to be alone, but another side of her wanted to embrace him and never let go again.

"I suppose. As alright as anyone can be in a situation as this," she said, turning around to face Richard. "Are you?"

"Quite," he said, and she noticed he wasn't lying. Sympathy was more prominent than sadness in his eyes — and she couldn't blame him exactly; _he_ hadn't known the Dowager the way she did.

"I'm glad to hear so." _Glad_ didn't seem that much of an appropriate choice of words.

Both silently agreed that this wasn't a time for many words, so they just stood there. Richard's arms hanging limply next to his sides, Isobel's shoulders tightened. She was on edge for no reason, she noted.

"Are you hungry?" she asked after a while to break the silence, to get them to move to a room that wasn't the corridor.

"I... don't know," Richard sighed. "Not all that much, I suppose."

"Me neither," Isobel pulled at the hem of her sleeve. "Perhaps we should just ring for some tea, then."

"Tea would be nice."

* * *

For goodness' sake, why did she have to suggest _tea_? Even forcing herself to eat a tasteless dinner seemed better than tea, now, because her mind somehow managed to connect the hot beverage to Violet. As if she didn't drink tea every day, and hadn't done so for a large part of her life — with or without Violet to share it with.

Richard sat opposite her. He drank his tea at a surprisingly high temperature, unlike what she knew him to do normally, and attempted to have an airy conversation, therefore breaking their unspoken agreement to silence. She didn't think it odd; they hadn't had much of a chance to speak the past few weeks, and Isobel was grateful he didn't blame her for it. She wanted to give him the attention she thought he deserved, but somehow she just couldn't get herself to listen. It was as if his words flitted past her, and only the vibration of his voice touched her eardrums.

"Yes," she mumbled without knowing what she replied to. "I suppose so."

It hadn't been a strange answer at all, apparently, for it seemed to her that Richard continued his attempt to break the painful silence without as much as a frown to his wife's vacant words.

As the lukewarm bitterness of tea filled her mouth, Isobel found herself drifting off to different, she daresay happier, times. Oh, how many cups of tea hadn't she shared with Violet at the Dowager house, but also in this very room? It felt so strange to think moments like that were never to occur again. It all seemed just like yesterday.

There she said on an armchair, hand resting on her cane and her back straight as ever. She never _really_ looked down either. She did in a literal way, but somehow it never seemed to be actually so; a fact that struck Isobel as slightly odd the first time they met. It was just one of those things that made Violet into who she was.

"Isobel?" Richard's voice, now loud and clear, startled her from her memories.

"Oh!" she looked at him, trying to make the fog in her head clear. "I must've drifted off there for a moment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates might be a bit irregular, as I want to try to write for this only when I'm feeling inspired.
> 
> For the next chapter, I might try to play around a bit with flashbacks! This first chapter is more for setting the tone than anything else.


	2. roses in bloom

_April._

She had been up to the Abbey once in the past month, to visit George. Only because she didn't think it fair for him to lose his great-grandmother and grandmother at once. The moment she arrived and saw his eyes light up at the sight of her, however, she realised she missed her grandson a lot in the past week without realising it.

The little boy had proved once more how enlightening a child's view could be. He didn't understand the definiteness of death, yet, and Isobel envied him for it. His innocence, the trust he had in life and memories, and the sheer cheerfulness that still emanated from George at moments — even when his entire family, the entire house actually, was in mourning.

He reminded her of Matthew sometimes, with his radiant smile, those bright blue eyes, and his blond head of hair. Last time, as he spoke to her of Violet, Isobel remembered how Matthew had been after losing his grandmother — her mother — at about the same age.

_"We'll see her again in Heaven, you know,"_ her grandson's words echoed on in her mind for days, followed by that little sentence of Matthew's that stuck with her all those years: _"grandma would want us to be okay. I'm trying my best for her, mother, why aren't you?"_

She supposed it was still applicable in this situation. _Violet_ would want for all of them to be okay, she made that clear from the very start of her illness. She would've likely encouraged the Crawleys to get back to managing the estate without looking back, and told Isobel to find herself another cause. Isobel was trying, really, to go on with her life. But it was all just too soon, and she expected somehow for Violet, wherever she might be, to understand.

It was funny how she started to put words into her late friend's mouth now. Things she knew Violet might never actually say, but which comforted her to imagine.

* * *

Violet _could_ be a lot kinder than they thought her to be, though — despite her stubborn pride. Isobel was reminded of the fact while she found herself unintentionally walking towards the Dowager house on a stroll through the village. Again.

The garden was beautiful. It still was, after the month that had passed, and Isobel noticed the entire house still looked the same. As if she could walk up to the door, knock, and be greeted by Sprat, not even surprised anymore that she'd dropped by unannounced. She drifted away on that thought for a moment. Almost heard the crunching of gravel under her feet, her heels clicking on the stone steps, the slightly creaking door, Sprat's greeting, followed by... Violet, sitting on her chair, cup of tea in hand, glancing curiously at whoever might have stopped by at tea time. Isobel knew Violet expected her to be the surprise guest, for she'd made a bit of a habit out of visiting without notice the last few years.

"Good afternoon, Isobel," she could make out a hint of friendliness in Violet's voice. One of the voices she'd never hear anywhere but in her own memory again.

Isobel felt a lump rise in her throat and quickly pulled her gaze away from the house, back to the garden for distraction.

The roses were in bloom. After Molesley won the competition during Isobel's first year at the village, Violet's roses hadn't been able to make it to the top more than once. They truly were beautiful, though, Isobel remarked as she leaned over the fence to sniff one. The lush aroma filled her senses, and for a moment she couldn't imagine that anything in the world was amiss... except for that stinging sadness in her chest.

She complimented Violet on her roses a while ago, as a snide joke about one of their first considerable rivalries, but she'd meant it. Perhaps she should ask Violet's gardener whether he could plant a few of the same roses in her own garden, it'd serve as a nice reminder. Even if Molesley's roses _were_ more beautiful.

* * *

"Those still remind me of the flower cup," Violet said. A little chuckle escaped her mouth, her eyes twinkling in amusement. Moments like these were becoming more and more rare these days. "I still remember it like it could've been yesterday."

"I suppose we all do," Isobel looked away from the roses she was arranging to smile at Violet. "I do, at least. It was the first time I discovered you might actually have a heart somewhere deep down inside."

"Unlike yours, which you display as a badge of charity," Violet remarked. No matter how ill she was becoming, it appeared that the Dowager's sharpness wasn't suffering one bit from it. "I used to wonder whether you stood up for the underdog simply to show off how terribly _good_ you are."

"Who knows. Perhaps I was, when I first arrived here," Isobel said. There wasn't really a way to make out if she was telling the truth or simply went with Violet's words. She picked up the vase and placed it nearer to Violet's bed so she'd have a better view of the roses.

"Oh, no, I don't think you were," Violet replied. "You were just so indignant it was infuriating to all of us."

"I wonder how it came to be that you know me so well, nowadays," Isobel pondered. "Perhaps we do spend a little too much time together."

"I wouldn't quite say so..."

"Oh, is that the front door I heard? I better go and check if it's for me," Isobel teased as she walked to the bedroom door, knowing full well that Violet would appreciate it if she were to stay for a bit longer. As if she wasn't to return in one or two hours after leaving, anyway.

"Please, Isobel, just sit down with me for a moment," Violet said. She attempted to sit up a bit more, and the few inches she moved appeared to require an awful lot of strength and energy. "You've been overexerting yourself, and that is something I know only truly good people to do. If you _had_ simply been showing off your kindness, I'm fairly certain you would've found me a good nurse by now."

"You flatter me," Isobel smiled. "But all joking aside, I really ought to get on now. I need to report to Dr. Clarkson."

"I see... you really _are_ a nurse, aren't you?" Violet said; her words didn't sound as kind as they had the potential to.

"I do wish I could stay for a bit, but I'll be back in a few hours and then-"

"Of course you will be. Only to rush off again at the slightest indication that I might require something," Violet said. Following her words was a weighted pause; one that made one feel obligated to wait for what was coming, for it must be of great importance. "You're aging, too, Isobel. All I'm asking of you is that you look after your own health as well."

"Surely I have you to do that for me," Isobel retorted. "But I have to be off now, really."

"You'd better not let me wait too long then," Violet raised her eyebrows expectantly at Isobel.

"I can make no promises," Isobel replied. The sentence had come to carry its own hidden meaning of a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates might slow down after this one, mostly because I want to involve Lord Merton in the story but don't feel I know him well enough to write him properly for longer storyparts. I'm rewatching Downton Abbey right now, but as I'm only in the 4th season it might take me a bit to get to the point where he starts to appear regularly.
> 
> A little detail: I edited the date of the first chapter to match this one's. I thought the idea of an entire year (Jan. - Dec.) would be nice, but when I wanted to include roses in bloom here, I figured I'd have to put that idea aside. Oh well haha.


End file.
